“I have a question…”
“You haven’t even heard my question.”
“It’s always the same one, you know the answer.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask…and wouldn’t, if you were more expressive.”
At the stoplight, his rheumy eyes spoke impatience, frustration, yet his voice was gentle: “Fifty years ago I asked you to marry me…I’m sure I said ‘I love you’, and I haven’t changed my mind—you fell in love with a quiet guy…now, do you want to eat at the Chinese place, or Pancake House?”
©Rhen Laird/Cobbled Contemplations, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.